


Hunger

by e_p_hart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Musicians, Operas, Salzburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:19:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can be the Court Jester if they wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

There is no way he’d notice me.

 

Beautiful violinist, while I’m stuck back here, a nameless soprano among the throng of warbling middle-aged women.

 

I shake my head and wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, moving out of the church. It really wasn’t something to worry about.

 

And yet I did, I was.

 

Gravel crunches under my feet.

 

I walk.

* * *

 

 Next rehearsal, the soloists appear. Soprano, mezzo, tenor, bass, each in their turn brilliant and musical and perfect. To stand alone.

 

I act my part, the happy chorister, watching the director, acting interested, hoping my face shines above the rest of mob of bored-looking, stuck-up sopranos.

 

The orchestra swells, the solo soprano rises magnificently above it all.

 

I hope to _be_ her. Some day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Catches me after rehearsal, slipping my coat on.

 

"Hello," he says, violin hand by his side.

 

"Hello," I say.

 

"I’m in the orchestra," he says, unnecessarily.

 

"I know," I say.

 

"And you’re a soprano?" He smiles, inviting me to share the joke: yes, I am a soprano, isn’t that funny, ha ha.

 

"Unfortunately," I say, and laugh. The church where we are singing is the absolutely worst for the music: much too resonant, and the sopranos cannot sing melismas to save their lives. Isn’t that always the case. You can only smile.

 

"I noticed you because you actually watch the director. And smile."

 

I laugh again. "I try. It’s how I was programmed: watch the director, look interested." I shrug. "Same thing if I were a soloist."

 

"Aren’t they fantastic?"

 

"They are. I wish I were that soprano."

 

"Oh, she’s not all that great." He winks at me. I’m at a loss of what to say. "I can say that," he continues, "because I’m dating her."

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

Well, I should’ve guessed something like that. Perfect people find each other eventually, I suppose. I know this is true.

 

"Really?" I say weakly.

 

"Yes, but I didn’t want to keep you, just let you know that you’re being a wonderful chorister."

 

I’m the third prize winner, the acknowledgement of a job well done without the luster. I take home the bouquet of roses that will die in a day.

 

"Well, thank you. I appreciate it. It’s nice to know that my efforts are showing." Escape. Escape. Mayday, mayday, mayday. "I’ll see you next time, okay? I’ve got to go."

 

"Oh, of course. Bye."

 

"See you."

 

Walk away. Inside I’m running.

 

* * *

 

Performance. Smooth. I’m happy. _Gloria in excelsis deo! Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus!_

 

Everyone is great. Just fabulous.

_Libera me, domine!_

 

The soprano gets a kiss when she finishes the concert. She grins at the section, at me, as she walks from the church.

_Descendit de caelis._

 

My-- the violinist smiles at me too, in the coatroom. "Did you have any plans for tonight?"

 

I did. I do. "Not really."

 

"A group of my friends was going to meet my girlfriend and I somewhere. Would you like to come?"

 

Did I want to resign myself to this torture?

 

No.

 

Was I going to?

 

"Sure," I say.

 

* * *

 

Cigarette smoke and coffee with rum, spiced sinfully with too much sugar and not enough coffee.

 

The Friends are all musicians as well, and our conversation bubbles with names and pieces and periods and styles and places.

 

Why I became a musician...

 

This.

 

Maybe music is all about the longing. You get that role, you do that role, it’s gone, onto the next, always hungry for the next big thing, for that next plateau, for that next job, that next place, can you reach that note, can you work on this and that, can you cut your hair, dye your hair, lose some weight, can you sing this instead of that, always hungry.

 

It seems I am always hungry.

 

This must be real, must be true: we’re always looking.

 

The coffee is cold now, the sugar they added congealed into a hard pile in the bottom of the avocado-coloured mug cradled between my hands so I won’t have to talk.

 

I’m so starved for conversation that now it’s before me, all I can do is stare. It’s all too much.

 

They’re sitting across the table, the perfect couple, her hair starting to come down from its ties, artfully mussed, and he with his musicians curls and grey eyes, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette as far downwind from the singers as he can. His arm is around her, he turns towards her and says something, teeth flashing white, and she laughs, pats him on the cheek.

 

Check, please.

 

No waiter in sight.

 

"You’ve been awful quiet so far." Everyone staring intently at me now.

 

I shrug. "I’m enjoying the conversation. It’s nice not to have to talk."

 

"But now you must introduce yourself more," the soprano says, the reigning queen.

 

"Yes," says her King. "Please."

 

I talk. I tell where I come from, what I like, what I dislike, what I hope to sing someday. I say things about the weather, about the people I’ve met, about the places I’ve sung. I talk, and they’re laughing at me, with me. I can be the Court Jester if they wish.

 

That’s me, always happy, smiling. I look on the bright side of things.

 

(I’m so hungry all I can do is dream.)

 

* * *

 

"Well, thank you for inviting me. It was fun." Lingering on the sidewalk, even though it’s freezing and I have an early class tomorrow.

 

"No problem." They’re rushing away. "We’ll see you some other time, yes?"

 

No, probably not. "Of course. Bye!"

 

Disappear into the night.

 

* * *

 

No, I never see either of them again.

 

I have my new roles, my new role models, my new lusts.

 

Still hungry.


End file.
